


being strong

by ifeelsinister



Category: Marvel, Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Depression, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Grief/Mourning, Hurt/Comfort, IT'S AN UNNAMED OC AND IT'S NOT GRAPHIC DON'T WORRY, M/M, Mental Health Issues, NONE OF THE MAIN CHARACTERS ATTEMPT SUICIDE OK, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Sam-Centric, Suicide Attempt, Veteran Sam, sam wilson defense squad
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-28
Updated: 2016-08-28
Packaged: 2018-08-11 11:56:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,113
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7891108
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ifeelsinister/pseuds/ifeelsinister
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>An incident with one of Sam's clients leads Sam to have a breakdown while Steve is away on business.</p>
            </blockquote>





	being strong

**Author's Note:**

> listen. sam wilson is a precious cinnamon roll and there are not enough sam-centric fics out there, especially not ones that focus on his mental wellbeing, so I decided to write one. also I know this title is ridiculous but I am past the point of caring, I'm just proud of myself for posting something after months of not writing lmao.

Sam is used to being strong for other people. It’s kind of his thing. His calling, you could say.

When he was a kid and his dad died, he was strong for his mom and his sisters, because yeah, maybe he wasn’t even a teenager yet but he was the man of the house now, and that’s what his dad would’ve wanted. Or so everyone kept telling him. Looking back now, Sam can see that that was way too much pressure to put on a kid who hadn’t even fully hit puberty yet, but he also knows there’s no use in dwelling on what  _ should’ve _ happened or how things  _ should’ve _ been. Sam’s said that enough times to the people at the VA that you’d think he would be better at following his own advice.

Sam developed a kind of reputation for being the emotionally strong one when he was in the Air Force, too. When missions had left everyone beat-up, exhausted, and missing home, Wilson was the one who could still get everyone to laugh about something--the one who, if only for a couple of minutes, could make them feel like all this crazy shit was worth it. It didn’t matter if he actually believed the things he said to cheer up his friends. It didn’t matter if he was suppressing his own feelings of desperation and fear and hopelessness; if it helped out someone else to act like he was okay when he wasn’t, it was worth it.

Sam has carried that belief with him all throughout his time overseas and into his work at the VA, and even his job as an Avenger. When he’s talking to the other vets at the VA, hearing about their flashbacks and addictions and suicidal thoughts, or when he sees people in third-world countries whose homes and entire lives are destroyed because of the actions of a few bad guys, it’s easy for Sam to convince himself that his problems are pretty small compared to those of other people.

Somewhere in the back of his mind, Sam knows that that way of thinking isn’t exactly healthy. Hell, he’s the one constantly telling people at the VA, “Your flashbacks might not be as frequent or violent as someone else’s. Your depression might not be as devastating as your friend’s. But that doesn’t make your experiences or your pain any less valid or important.” He’s a hypocrite on that front, and he knows it, but he guesses he’s never been that good at practicing what he preaches.

Besides, it’s not like, as a counselor, he can say to the people at the VA, “Man, that really sucks that everyone you loved died and that you’re unemployed and disabled. But you wanna hear about  _ my _ problems?” As an Avenger, he can’t rescue a little girl from a fallen building and tell her, while she’s mourning the loss of her entire family, that he hasn’t had a nightmare-free night in longer than he can remember, or that every day he has a harder time remembering what Riley’s voice sounded like. And even if he  _ could _ say those things to them, he wouldn’t want to. Because being strong for people who can’t be strong for themselves is what he does. It’s who he is, in the very core of his being.

But sometimes… Sometimes, it gets really fucking hard.

He gets the phone call while he’s on his way to the VA for a meeting. Another counselor--Janet, one of Sam’s friends--calls from the hospital, because she’s the emergency contact for a guy who frequents their meetings. Everyone at the VA knows him; he doesn’t talk much, but he’s at almost every meeting, and when he  _ does _ talk, well, he’s one of the most compassionate guys there, despite all the shit Sam knows he’s going through. Anyway. Janet’s the emergency contact for this guy, and she got called to the hospital after the guy’s landlord found him unconscious in his apartment. Prescription drug overdose. The guy didn’t have a drug problem as far as anyone knew, so it was obviously intentional. 

“Doctors say he’s gonna be fine,” Janet assures Sam, who’s sitting on the subway with his head in his hand that isn’t holding the phone to his ear. “Physically, at least. The landlord found him just in time. They want to admit him to a psych hospital once he wakes up, though, and he… Well, he’s not gonna like that.”

Sam grits his teeth, glad to hear that at least the guy is alive, but still kind of in shock about the whole thing. Suicide attempts are not necessarily an uncommon thing with the people Sam knows from his VA meetings, but that doesn’t make them any less devastating or any easier to deal with when they do happen.

“Anyway, I’m gonna be up here for a while,” Janet sighs, sounding much more put-together than Sam feels right now, and Sam’s not even the guy’s counselor. “Think you can handle tonight’s meeting without me?”

Sam takes a deep breath, forcing his voice to sound calm, steady. It’s a skill he’s perfected after years of practice. “Yeah, of course,” he says, and he sounds completely convincing, as calm and casual as if he was talking about the weather. “Just keep me updated, yeah?”

“Sure. Talk to you later, Sam.”

The meeting goes rather smoothly, all things considered. No one seems to notice the way Sam’s smile doesn’t quite reach his eyes, the way his leg shakes when he’s sitting down, listening to others talk about their weeks and their troubles. He can feel himself coming apart at the seams, his usually put-together appearance faltering ever so slightly. It’s not enough for other people to notice, not when they’re so caught up in their own struggles and when he’s putting all his energy into appearing as normal as possible--but to him, every breath, every movement, every forced smile is a struggle in its own right, one he feels he’s losing.

If Sam’s being completely honest, he hasn’t been feeling the best lately. The days are getting shorter, the weather drearier and colder, and in a few weeks, it’ll be the anniversary of Riley’s death. Sam always feels a little edgier around this time of the year, whether he consciously notices it or not. His nightmares have picked up in their frequency and intensity; he’s eating less than normal. Steve, perceptive as ever, has noticed that Sam isn’t at his best, though the fact that he’s been away on business for three weeks means that it’s easier for Sam to hide the worst parts from him. It’s easy to sound happy and like you’re doing okay when you only talk on the phone to your significant other for an hour each day. When you’re around each other twenty-four-seven, sharing an apartment and a bed--not so much.

By the time the meeting is over and Sam’s on the train back home, he feels as exhausted as if he’s just finished a six-week-long mission. His chest feels heavy, his head’s pounding. He was stressed and feeling shitty before Janet’s phone call, but that was the final push he needed to start completely falling apart. Knowing that Steve won’t be home when he gets back to the apartment makes it all worse; a giant, hundred-year-old super-shoulder to cry on sounds about perfect right now, because Sam can definitely feel himself on the verge of tears, as much as he hates to admit it. He manages to suppress them until he gets into the apartment, but the moment the door closes behind him, he can feel the walls crumbling down, and he barely makes it into the bedroom before he completely falls apart.

*

The apartment is quiet when Steve gets home, the watch on his wrist informing him that it’s close to ten p.m. It’s Wednesday, which means Sam had a VA meeting tonight, but he usually gets home by 9:15 at the latest, and he rarely ever goes to bed before eleven, so there’s no logical reason as to why the apartment should feel as empty as it does. Sam doesn’t know Steve’s coming home today--Steve has known for a few days that he was coming home early, but wanted to surprise Sam--so he could’ve gone out or something without telling Steve, but that doesn’t explain why Sam’s keys are on the coffee table. The lights are on, but the apartment is so silent it’s unnerving. 

Sam isn’t a fan of silence. If he’s home and awake, there’s usually music playing, or the TV on in the background, or  _ something _ . Anything but this pervasive, tangible silence that has settled over their apartment.

Frowning, Steve shrugs off his jacket and hangs it up by the door before noticing Sam’s jacket on the floor.  _ It must’ve fallen off the hook _ , Steve thinks, picking it up and dusting it off before hanging it up next to his own. He steps further into the living room just to find both it and the kitchen empty, and he calls out, “Babe? I’m home,” just to get no response.

Moving into the bedroom now, Steve calls out Sam’s name again. Again, no response. The bedcovers on Sam’s side of the bed are rumpled, like someone sat on them but didn’t fully get under the blankets. There’s a half-empty glass of water on the nightstand, and Sam’s shoes are lying haphazardly in the middle of the floor like they’d been kicked off and Sam couldn’t be bothered to put them away.

By now, Steve is getting nervous. He checks his phone for some kind of missed call or text from Sam, though he knows before he looks that there aren’t any. He’s about to call out for Sam one last time when he notices the bathroom light on, the door slightly ajar.

_ Oh _ , Steve thinks, his heart slightly sinking.  _ It’s one of those nights. _

Steve drops his bag on the bed before tentatively pushing the bathroom door open, and just as he suspects, he finds Sam lying on the cold tile floor, his back to Steve and his knees pulled up to his chest. He doesn’t look up when Steve steps inside, but Steve knows he’s not asleep. His back shudders a little with every breath he takes, and every once in awhile he lets out a little sniffle.

Steve sighs quietly and sits down next to him on the floor, leaving enough space that they don’t quite touch. Sometimes touching Sam when he’s upset can make him feel even worse, and Steve isn’t sure if that’s the case right now or not. 

He waits a moment before murmuring, “Hey.” 

Sam doesn’t respond.

“Bad night?” Steve asks softly, and this time, Sam hesitates before giving a small nod. “Is it okay if I touch you?”

Sam nods again, more surely this time, as if he was hoping Steve would ask. With Sam’s permission, Steve adjusts Sam so that his head is lying in Steve’s lap, and from this angle, Steve can see the dried tear tracks on Sam’s cheeks, the skin around Sam’s eyes puffy and rubbed raw. Staring blankly at the wall, Sam seeks out Steve’s hand and squeezes it weakly before allowing his eyes to flutter shut as he lets out a deep breath.

Steve has only seen Sam like this a handful of times. It takes a lot for Sam to get to this point; it doesn’t just happen out of nowhere, it builds and builds over the course of days or even weeks or months, and Steve can’t help but blame himself for being gone when Sam needed him the most, needed Steve to stop him from getting to this point. 

It’s not uncommon for Steve to find Sam in the bathroom when it  _ does _ get this bad. If Steve isn’t around to calm Sam down in the moment, his go-to safe place is the bathroom floor.  _ It grounds me _ , he’d explained when Steve asked after the first time he found Sam here.  _ The coldness, the hard floor beneath me--it just… gives me something to focus on other than feeling like shit.  _ And, well, Steve couldn’t really argue with that logic.

Steve raises Sam’s hand to his lips and kisses his knuckles, his free hand lightly stroking Sam’s head. They sit there for a long time, not talking, Steve just soothing Sam with his touch and allowing him to feel whatever he needs to feel without any judgement. Gradually, Sam’s breaths start to come slower and deeper, his body going lax where he rests in Steve’s lap. Just as Steve is starting to think Sam might have fallen asleep, he speaks, his voice hoarse from crying.

“You’re home early.”

“I wanted to surprise you,” Steve murmurs before sighing. “Just wish I could’ve gotten home sooner.”

Sam’s eyes flutter open and meet Steve’s as he says, quietly, “I missed you.”

Steve smiles weakly down at him, his fingers still tracing idle patterns on Sam’s skin. “I missed you, too.” He leans down and presses a kiss to Sam’s forehead before asking, “You wanna move to the bed?”

Sam considers Steve’s proposition for a moment before nodding. Steve helps him to sit up, then offers Sam his hand to help him to his feet. They slowly walk hand-in-hand to the bed, and Steve holds up the blankets on Sam’s side of the bed so he can crawl beneath them, settling into the mattress with a relieved sigh. Steve pulls off his shoes and jeans before crawling into bed beside Sam, pulling him into his arms so that Sam’s back is pressed up against Steve’s chest, Steve’s arms a stronghold around him.

“Do you wanna talk about it?” Steve asks after a moment, his hand resting over Sam’s heart. Sam lets out a shaky breath, taking a moment to find his voice.

“A guy I know from the VA tried to kill himself.”

Sam can feel Steve stiffen behind him. “Jesus, Sam,” he breathes after a moment, his arms tightening slightly around his boyfriend. “I’m so sorry.”

Sam would probably be crying again at the mention of it if he wasn’t so mentally and physically drained--and if he hadn’t spent the last hour or so crying himself out on the bathroom floor. “He’s alive,” he murmurs. “Thank God. It just… really shook me, y’know.”

Steve doesn’t say anything, leaving the floor open in case Sam wants to say more. After a while, he does.

“It just…” His voice breaks, and he takes a deep breath before starting over. “It just really fuckin’ sucks sometimes, man. It sucks having to listen to all these people who are suffering and wanting to kill themselves and you have to tell them it’ll get better when you don’t even know if that’s true cause you feel just as terrible as they do half the time.” Sam pauses for a moment, then opens his mouth to say something else, but he seems to think twice of it and stops himself. He’s quiet for a few seconds before he finally says, “It’s just hard always having to be the strong one.” He says it softly, barely above a whisper, as if he doesn’t know if he wants Steve to hear or not, though of course he does.

Steve lets out a deep breath, his thumb rubbing soothingly over Sam’s chest, feeling the steady beat of Sam’s heart beneath his palm. “You don’t always have to be the strong one, Sam,” he says slowly. “It’s okay to admit you’re not okay. No one’s gonna think any less of you. Your feelings are just as important as anyone else’s.”

Sam doesn’t say anything.

They lie in silence for a while, Steve continuously running his fingertips over different parts of Sam’s body--his arms, his hands, his chest--in hopes of soothing him, reminding him that Steve’s here even if he can’t fix anything. Sam’s just starting to doze off when Steve speaks again.

“Maybe,” he says, then pauses for a moment, turning the words over in his head. He sighs and starts again. “Maybe you should take some time off from working at the VA. Or at the very least take a few weeks off from the group on Wednesdays. Take some time to take care of yourself instead of having to worry about everyone else.”

“I can’t just abandon my clients, Steve,” Sam mutters.

“You wouldn’t be abandoning them,” Steve insists. “If it’s what you need to get yourself feeling a little better, I’m sure they’d understand. The other counselors can take care of things until you get back.” Then Steve pulls out the big guns. “If one of your coworkers needed a few weeks off to focus on their own mental health, you’d completely understand, right?”

Shit. Steve is right.

He always is.

If Sam had any more energy, he probably would find some way to argue that point, because even though he  _ logically _ knows that what Steve’s saying is true, it’s a lot easier to know something than it is to put that knowledge into practice. It’s a lot easier for him to tell himself that his needs matter than it is for him to ask for help when he needs it. 

But the fact of the matter is that Sam is tired, and his head hurts from crying, and all he really wants is to sleep for a long time, wrapped up in Steve’s arms, warm and safe from the world if only for a while. Taking a few weeks off doesn’t sound like such a bad idea right now. He’ll have to work things out with his coworkers, make sure his clients are taken care of while he’s gone, but all that can wait until tomorrow.

Sam rolls over onto his other side so that he and Steve are face to face now, and Sam leans up a little bit, pressing his lips against Steve’s in a sleepy kiss.

“I love you,” Sam sighs when they separate, curling up against Steve’s chest.

Sam can practically hear the smile in Steve’s voice as he murmurs, “I love you, too. Tomorrow will be better, I promise.”

Sam just hums in response, too tired to form a coherent sentence. He dozes off not long after, soothed into sleep by the warmth of Steve around him and the steady thump of Steve’s heartbeat in his ear. Steve’s words echo in his mind as he drifts into sleep-- _ tomorrow will be better. _ No matter how bad things seem right now, Sam knows Steve is probably right.

He always is.


End file.
